


Tonight It Rains On Someone Else's Roof

by orochisInebriation (asterCrash)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, In its own awful way, Post-Sburb, but it can still be cute, definitely not fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-07-21 17:19:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7396507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asterCrash/pseuds/orochisInebriation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Self-freed Gamzee Makara, the troll who is his own messiah, finds salvation in a place he'd hate to admit it lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tonight It Rains On Someone Else's Roof

**Author's Note:**

  * For [May](https://archiveofourown.org/users/May/gifts).



You find yourself a righteous motherfucking hideout in a hive with a tree growing on it. Ain’t no better place, you think to yourself, for a motherfucker to get his hide on, away from the rain and the trolls and the things that ain’t holy, than under some plant nubs in a hive provided by the messiahs themselves. Which is to say, provided by you, to yourself. So it all up and surprises you to find this holy wiggling day present is already occupied.

Damara Megido, is a name you shouldn’t know and therefore do. You kick the wicked impossibilities for fun these days. She’s wearing what you assume was her Beforan standard outfit, some kind of filthy short skirt and a cardigan what hasn’t fit her in sweeps beyond counting. She drags at a roll of burning paper that doesn’t smell of any kind of thing so much as it does of nostalgia and burnt out pie tins. She puffs in and out, long breaths as you couldn’t take yourself for want of a breathing apparatus not involving half pupated gills. You eye her and she eyes you, matching your wicked ogle for a condescending stare ain’t fit for a rustblood such as her.

You’d tell her to take her ganderbulbs and swap them for her shame globes if you weren’t lacking in your usual verbosity as a result of a thing you don’t fully understand. Something happened to you along the way when the heathen alien all went and spoiled your fun, something from a time you didn’t pass through that took the words right out of your aggravation chute. You know that more was robbed from you by one what ain’t even a thief, but even your legendary capriciousness isn’t enough to take back what don’t exist anymore.

“I not tell the others,” she offers, with her sinners mouth ain’t meant for anything but begging your mercy. “That you out of hunger trunk.” She gestures you sit with a casual wave of her smoke making hand, and just to do the exact opposite of what everyone expects, you sit down where she gestures. You are wicked into the capriciousness these days. Ain’t had much else to think about on your lonesome these sweeps. Your invertebrother ain’t been speaking to you, on account of you wanting him to be a righteous man, and him preferring to fill pails with something ain’t trollish or right or even fucking holy. Drinker of rainbows done drained your corpses dry for mothergrub’s milk, after you went to all the trouble of slaughtering them for mirth and mirth alone, she ain’t want nothing else from you, except maybe a taste of purple as she’s not fit to look on. The thief and your play thing stole each other both from you and you ain’t gone near either for fear of what they could steal from you next.

“Wanna drag?” Damara holds her lit piece of memory smell out to you. Just to be extra capricious you do the opposite of what even you think you’re going to do and accept it. Smoke filters down your windchute and out the side of your neck, and you have to take off your hood to stop from doing an impression of the foolish seer what thinks she sees best in smog and horrorterror piss. Your hair ain’t been much for care in your life, on account of your lusus not being more for caring for it, but it seems especially greasy since you stopped just letting it hang out. Damara sticks her tongue out at your righteous mane but you ain’t pay her no mind. You ain’t got it in you to want nothing quadranted no more, and you’re never gonna start being the kind of troll who primps and preens their do in the hopes someone’ll notice enough to take a pair of scissors to it.

She snatches her sopor stick back out of your hand and takes a drag, and because you are on a roll with your up and surprising yourself, you don’t club her to death for the insult of it. It ain’t that you done changed your mind about anything. Maybe a motherfucker just needs a break of being the bad guy for a bit. Take some time to breath a little fresh air before going back to your temple in the hunger trunk by way of the gods what you done offended.

“You not as pretty as him,” she says, conversationally. Referring probably to an invertebrother who ain’t even said your name in a period of time you ain’t going to count on account of not being the dude of time. “But still,” she says, “kind of cute.” You sneer at her, make your disgust at her lowblood filth as evident as you can short of a club spiked with smaller clubs. “Not mind sitting on you face for a bit.” She licks her lips. “If you bored with new world.”

You don’t need words to express how little you think of that idea.

“Just suggestion,” she shrugs. “You look like you have bad time of things.” She smirks at you. “I know that feel. Maybe about time we both stop feeling like shit? Stop hiding out under trees?” Her laugh ain’t the worst thing you ever heard but it’s the wrong kind of mirthful. She’s not who you should be with, she’s not motherfucking holy enough for you to look at. “I see your timeline. Other times you got some action before it go bad.” She makes a lewd gesture with her fingers. “This time game girl junior not want to fuck you. Got better bitch to be pailing.” She plays at thoughtful for a moment, pantomine as your invertebrother might appreciate better than you. “You virgin, big guy?”

You don’t need to get to your feet to be behind her with your arm around her filthy blasphemous windchute. Then a miracle stops from happening as she disappears from your arms and someone shoves you from behind. You stumble, tripping over your righteous slippers and falling onto the ground. You roll over, ready to spring back at her, just in time for her to crash knees-first down on both your arms. Her legs are spread wide over you, skirt dangling down to cover up your righteous symbol where she hovers over your chest.

“Stop,” she says, and time slows down to a crawl. You can’t move like this, your thinkpan goes too fast for your fronds to get where they’re wanted to be. “Want you to want it too,” she says over the course of a perigee. “Want to make us both feel good for a change.” She strokes her heathen nubs down your face (not a pap, never a pap). “We deserve happy moments too.”

Her spell ends and you are once more a sick motherfucker who could tear her in half if you wanted to. But you don’t want to anymore. She leers down at you, and you don’t stop her as she leans forward, lifting her skirt up as she goes. Her garments are the same perfidious rust red as her blood, and she presses them into your face without explanation or instruction. At first you simply lay there, capriciousness incarnate as she tries to get a reaction out of you by rubbing up and down, as if she’d mistaken your snout for a bulge. Then, growing bored, you actually up and use your tongue on her. She moans like the wicked verses could come from her lips and doubles over, pushing her covered nook into you harder. You lick her again and she swears in a language that you shouldn’t be able to understand. She arches up to tangle a hand in the sacred lock of your hair and pulls you up to meet her. You taste broad strokes of her slurry, as it stains through the satin of her underwear, closing your lips around to suck at the nub of her bulge that’s come out to convert to the mirthful messiahs. She purrs with all of her body, a vibration that pushes you down into the ground even as you reach up to taste more of her.

You spend a few minutes just there, drinking in the closest substitute to the wicked elixir you’ve yet to find, before she lets out a trill and pulls off you. “Enough,” she says. “Don’t wanna use your mouth for bucket.” She stands up and slides her red stain off her legs, but the wicked short skirt stays in place. “Because you good at that, gonna fuck you gentle,” she says as she pulls your righteous codpiece off, “get this fucking thing out the way first.” You lie back and let her do the work, as any disciple of your holy ways should. 

She pulls your leggings off and your undergarments too, sliding them all the way off your fronds to discard on the other side of the block. Outside you can hear the rain, pouring down harder than ever. “Fuck, you wet, baby,” she lilts in an accent from a place you’ve never been and therefore doesn’t exist, “you really want bulge, huh?” You lift your head up to see her drawing herself up out of her skirt, a coiling rope of red, though not the punchline bright shade you’d fantasized about for the last two sweeps. You put your head back down on the floor. “You don’t want me in your nook, you gotta say something now,” she says.

You consider saying something, telling her to wait, making her take your bulge first, something to hold off the inevitable a little longer. Then she brushes the tip of her bulge up between your legs and oh, wow. No. You will not ever be speaking again. No. Never, never, never again. Never. Wow. She squeals something sinful in her home tongue as she slides her curling way inside you. Back when you had a best friend you might have remembered him telling you something about actually reading the schoolfeeds on this stuff, but you suppose that’s one of a lot of reasons you don’t have a best friend anymore.

“Shhh,” she tells you, clamping a hand over your mouth (not a shoosh, never a shoosh). “You thinking too loud, can’t hear us fuck over you noisy thinkpan.” You bite her heathen hand, but you don’t bite it hard as she motherfucking deserves. Ain’t none out there got a mouth full of fangs bites tight enough to give her what she deserves. What all of them deserve. “Hey,” she moves her hand from your mouth to tangle with your hair, “you not listen? Think less,” she tugs at your hair, lifting your head off the ground, “fuck more.”

She purrs assent when you warp a claw around the curve of one of her horns, pulling her face down to yours. You can taste her ragged breath in the air as she writhes inside you. “Yeah,” she says as you growl for her, “yeah, yeah, yeah, come on.” You move your hips for her, sliding like a slitherbeast in the sopor, massaging her bulge against your insides. She groans and presses her forehead into you, trying to lock horns like a rutting lowblood, which, in fairness to her fucking, she motherfucking is. You run your thumbs along the grooves that ring around her horns every inch of their curling curious way, she squeals rapture and revelation with every bump of your frond nubs up against her velvet.

Being another time, you would have insisted she use a bucket, like a troll of decent standing rather than a wild animal. Being another time, you’d not be lying down for her and letting her take your righteousness as her lowblood right. As it is, in this time and place, with your throat sealed up beyond your chucklevoodoo’s capacity to contravene, she pails you selfish and long. Spilling over her edge as you pull her closer she drives her bulge into you, without warning or asking your motherfucking permission. She fills you up, fluid sloshing within you warm like the fire of the faithful burned alive in a church-turned-pyre of their own construction, red, like blood of aliens, or of scum, or of the woman from another world who made a troll out of you at long last, even if she wasn’t meant to, even if you were in a time wrong for you and she, being a wicked witch of things that were and can’t be any longer, saw a thing she couldn’t help her sinful self but fix.

Somewhere in the sin you find a measure of salvation, and purple slurry mixes with ruby.

She doesn’t talk much after you’re done, but she doesn’t make you leave, and she doesn’t leave herself. As you fall asleep to dream of times that never happened, and the nightmares of what you should be, she rubs her hands through your hair and whispers something that you pretend you can’t understand. When you wake up in your hideyhive under the tree, you wake up alone.

**Author's Note:**

> This was a really interesting pairing to write, I hope I did your imagination for them justice!


End file.
